


The Road Home

by Evilsnowswan



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Endgame Kara Danvers/Lena Luthor, F/F, Family Fluff, Family History, Gen, Inspired by Hallmark Christmas Movies, Lena Luthor-centric, Post-Leviathan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:42:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28134864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evilsnowswan/pseuds/Evilsnowswan
Summary: As the last living Luthor, Lena is the sole heiress to more assets than she knows what to do with. Something strange in her father’s will kindles her curiosity and has her embark on a journey to find out more about her inheritance.
Relationships: Kara Danvers/Lena Luthor
Comments: 28
Kudos: 102





	1. Rain

**Author's Note:**

> What can I say, one Christmas movie too many, and I am in the mood for something fluffy. This is a Lena-centric story. Eventual Supercorp.

She wasn’t grieving. She was talking to lawyers. About L-Corp. About bonds, stocks, and real estate. She studied long lists and classified documents, reading details on every last penny, every acre of land tied to the Luthor name, until the letters and numbers in front of her no longer held any meaning. There was so much. Of everything. She could give it all away and still have more than she would ever need.

Lena looked at the copy of her father’s will again. Lionel Luthor had made it not knowing he would ever have a child, but allowing that if he did produce a male heir, the money and real estate would go to him. Over the years it had been changed only once, over two decades ago. And it was that change, that small adjustment, that had led to the rather ludicrous situation Lena Luthor now found herself in.

Of course, it was her own fault, had been her own irrational decision, but even so, perhaps she should reconsider seeing a therapist once she was stateside again.

Relentless rain drummed on the roof of the taxi, the windscreen and windows running with water. She could no longer see much beyond runny blotches of green and grey, and sighed heavily.

“Don't like the weather? Wait five minutes,” the driver said. “It will change.” He caught her eye in the mirror and smiled, but Lena said nothing. She wasn’t in the mood for small talk about the weather. Not finding a polite smile within her tired body, she gave the man a nod.

“Where did you say you were from, Miss?”

She hadn’t.

“West Coast,” she said, and the driver hummed in response.

“Wildfires,” he said, nodding at the slanting sheets of rain. Visibility was poor at best, but his hands were steady on the wheel as he followed the winding road at a relaxed crawl.

Yes, wildfires. They had just made it through California wildfire season. It had been a pretty bad one. Even with… extraterrestrial help.

“The Fires. They bringing you here? For our cool wet winter?” Lena wasn’t sure, but he seemed to have winked at her. “Weather’s much nicer in the summer.”

While her mind was still working on an answer that would suffice, but not invite any more curious questions, the rain let up a little, and the driver smiled. “Ahh,” he said, gesturing. “Here you go, Miss. Just in time too.”

Lena turned her head and looked out her window. Dark-grey clouds were still hanging low over the gently sloping green hills. The rain was still falling, but much softer now.

Rising directly from the valley in front of them, was a cluster of stone houses with traditional, cottage gardens, nestled in patches of vibrant green with a brook babbling through them. The road was little more than a muddy track now—certainly not wide enough for another car to safely pass them side-by-side—as it snaked through the village and over a stone bridge, past a tiny church and a graveyard.

Lena frowned and looked down at the piece of paper in her hands. Instead of driving towards the heart of the city, they had left it behind long ago. And, instead of heading towards the next city over, like she had assumed, they had wound up here. Wherever that was.

This place wasn’t a city, a town, or even a village; it was a hamlet— and she couldn’t, for the life of her, understand why Lionel Luthor would invest in property or land this smack dab in the middle of nowhere. What use could it possibly have been to the Luthors?

“Are you sure—?” She began, then bit her lip. 

Unless there were two places with the exact same name and address, or her driver wasn’t quite as local as he claimed to be, this _had to_ be it?

“Laragh,” her driver said. “Population 73 souls, give or take. Our Aoife is due any moment—” He laughed, but Lena was only half listening. “And dear Mary McCarthy had a bad fall last week. She’s still—” The car shuddered to a sudden stop, and Lena looked up and swiveled around in her seat, staring out at the cottage they were parked in front of. Her eyes zeroed in on the large brass number 8 on the garden gate. She blinked. “Alright, Miss, house number 8, to your right.”

Lena turned back around to find her driver grinning broadly. Either the man was pulling her leg or someone at Sullivan & Rothman had messed up royally. She hesitated. Perhaps, she should ask him to take her to the nearest hotel. She would have to make a few calls, and this place didn’t look like it had the best reception.

“Do you need help with your luggage, Miss?” The driver asked, unbuckling, but Lena shook her head.

“No, thank you,” she said. “Please wait, I’m only making a quick stop. How far is the nearest hotel from here?”

She could tell he was trying his best not to laugh at her; at the strange woman from overseas travelling in a suit and heels, with her face all made up and her hair in a tight ponytail.

“I’ll only be a minute,” she said, and opened the door before he could burst into laughter for real.

Once outside, with her back to the car, she blew out her cheeks. What had she gotten herself into?

Her pride wouldn’t have allowed her to stay in the car one minute longer and be laughed at—even good-naturedly—but standing outside in the drizzle, with the wind tugging at her thin blouse and pulling her hair, and the cold tinting her cheeks and ears pink within seconds, Lena felt just as foolish. Clearly this was a private residence. And, judging by the lights in the windows and the smoke coming from the chimney, there were people living here.

Somewhere behind her, the church bells gonged the hour, and Lena jumped, her heels sinking deeper into the soaked earth. She cussed under her breath. Well, she couldn’t keep standing here like an idiot.

Clutching her feeble piece of paper as means of justification, she took a deep breath and pushed open the gate. Thankfully, a stone path led right up to the front door. And, even better, there was a post and beam portico—a simple roof supported by wooden beams and stone—to keep her dry while she summoned the courage to do something crazy and knock.

With her free hand, Lena rapped on the door. The thick wood hurt her knuckles. Nothing happened, and she felt both very stupid and slightly faint. She knocked again. Still nothing.

She was about to turn around and slink away from the house and back to the waiting taxi like a startled schoolgirl, when she heard movement on the other side of the door. The thump of something heavier than footsteps against the floor grew louder, and Lena felt her heart fall into step in her chest.

The door opened at the same moment the porch light went on, and Lena found herself blinded momentarily by the light, bright yellow spots dancing in front of her eyes.

“Hello? Who is it?” A voice asked, and Lena blinked as something clattered to the floor.

When she could see again, she found herself face-to-face with a woman about the same height as herself, but much older. The woman stood in the door frame, and Lena watched as all color seemed to drain from her face slowly, leaving her cheeks pale and her high cheekbones standing out even more prominently.

Lena cleared her throat. “Good afternoon, ma’am,” she said, intently examining the wood grain pattern right behind the woman’s left ear. For some reason, looking this stranger in the eye made her nerves flutter. “I'm sorry to bother you. Um, I’m… I’m looking for ‘Clarisse's Cottage’, house number 8—?”

The woman leaned against the door for support, and, for an instant, Lena thought she might slide to the floor. Her eyes were wide, glistening as they caught the porchlight, and Lena instantly felt bad for having spooked the poor woman with her surprise visit. She should have called, written a letter. How had she been supposed to know, though—

“Patrick!” The woman called over her shoulder, a hint of alarm and a lot of urgency in her voice. One hand holding onto the door, the other covered her heart as she called out again. “Patrick! Oh, Pat, come here, quick!”

Before Lena could do more than take a small step back and slowly raise her hands, a man— _Patrick_ —answered from further inside the house, and there were hurried footsteps until a tall man appeared in the door behind the woman.

“Darling, what happened, who is at the—?” He stopped dead, his face going slack for a second before he recovered. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”

Patrick was an old man, but Lena could see the young man in him still, handsome and fit, with broad shoulders, strong arms, and a cheeky smile that, no doubt, once upon a time, had had the village girls fall head over heels. Looking at his face, open and friendly, she felt herself calm down a little. Perhaps, Patrick just had that effect on people, for the woman looked a lot less anxious too.

Patrick ran a hand through his wild mop of hair. It was grey, yes, but there was rather a lot of it, and it stuck up comically at the back when he let his hand drop again. “Well, I have to say,” he began, then paused and smiled at Lena. “This is something.” His hands squeezed the woman’s shoulders, and she leaned back against him.

“I—” Lena opened her mouth to say something, anything; to explain herself, perhaps, but all words seemed to have deserted her for the time being.

The woman cocked her head, one trembling hand tucking her hair behind her ear, before she took a wobbly step forward. Lena’s eyes darted to Patrick’s, finding another easy smile where worry lines crossed those of joy. She didn’t understand why, but seeing him smile made something hard in her chest dissolve, and she took a deep breath.

“... Lena?” The woman asked, her voice barely above a whisper, but Lena felt herself flinch as if she had yelled in her face.

She hadn’t, and it was just her name, but something about hearing the woman speak it; something about the tilt of her head and the look in her eyes, had Lena’s heart beat a little unsteady. She swallowed, then nodded slowly.

The woman’s face seemed to melt and regroup into something almost unbearably warm and soft; and Lena had to avert her gaze quickly, her eyes seeking refuge in the wood pattern and then finding it with Patrick. Patrick’s face was nothing but unbridled joy, and he beamed down at her with such intensity, it made her feel warm from the inside out.

“Oh. _Oh!_ Oh, Goodness!” Before Lena had realized what was happening, thin arms had wrapped around her, the warmth of another body a red-hot shock to her system that had her freeze in place.

“Annie!” Patrick said, and Lena didn’t move, but the woman did. She let go, hands hovering, fluttering and flapping helplessly, as if she wanted nothing more than to touch Lena’s hair, her shoulders, her arms. Lena could feel her eyes where her hands longed to be, and the sensation nearly burned the skin off her flesh.

She heard the woman sniffle, watched her wipe tears off her cheeks, and found herself tangled up in that watery, wobbly smile.

Like the day’s rain shimmered on the lush grass around them, the woman’s tears had lit up her eyes, made them sparkle like emeralds. They were green like Lena’s eyes were—well, at least the one, anyway—and there was something familiar in the way they held Lena’s gaze now, gentle but firm all the same, steadfast and sure.

“I… I don’t…” Lena heard herself stammer, but her voice didn’t seem to belong to her any longer. It rumbled in her chest and almost died on the long way out — like a shipwrecked creature, thin and weak from exertion. “I don’t understand?”

The woman bit her lip, then turned to Patrick and, not knowing what else to do, Lena did the same, waiting, with bated breath and a racing heart, for an explanation that would make everything make sense. Patrick looked like a person who could do that, explain things. He looked like a man with answers.

“Easy now, easy,” he said, his voice dropping into a calming range. He moved slowly— Lena couldn’t have said if due to age or just caution—and stepped out from behind the woman to stand beside her. As he did, he bent down and picked up a cane, an ornate walking stick, from the floor and handed it to the woman to lean on. Then he stooped down and smiled at Lena.

“Lena,” he said in that same calm voice. “This is Annie Kieran.” He put an arm around the woman whose cheeks were wet from tears, but who smiled at Lena with the might of a drowning person grabbing a rope and holding tight. “And my name is Patrick. Kieran. We… we are your… grandparents.” 


	2. Tea

It took a couple seconds for the words to reach her. When they did, her brain shattered into a million questions, most of them beginning with ‘why’ and some with ‘how’, and she couldn’t ask a single one. She couldn’t make a sound. She couldn’t move.

Lena’s arms shook in the cold December air, she tasted the bad airplane food she had tasted many hours back, sweat on her neck turned icy cold.

“Why don’t we all sit down, have a cuppa?”

Feeling bloodless and numb, Lena was only half aware of the strong hand on her shoulder that gently guided her forward. She followed the tap of the cane inside the house. Her heels clicked on the floor, her heart pounded in her ears, and she paused after a few steps, unsure where to go.

“To the right, dear,” came the woman’s voice, low and trembling slightly. The woman. Annie Kieran. Her grandmother. Trying desperately to wrap her mind around the word and the idea, Lena directed her steps to the right, entering a warm delight of butter-colored walls, tiled floors, and a wood dining set that didn’t quite match the low kitchen cabinets.

Somehow, Lena found herself at the table, sitting on the corner bench. A few moments later hot tea was placed in front of her. It had a nice toffee color. Lena’s hands wrapped around the mug. “Thank you.”

“It’s best half and half,” Patrick said, smiling. He took a seat opposite her and sipped at his own tea. At the head of the table, Annie gingerly sank down on a padded chair. Her mug had a flower pattern and the letter ‘A’ on it.

The tea’s flavor was distinctive and comforting, and Lena felt warmth return to her body. It spread unevenly, leaving her feet icy while her face ran hot with confusion and unanswered questions. If Annie and Patrick were her grandparents, shouldn’t she have known? Known about them? Where had they been all her life? Why hadn’t they—

Catching her eye, Patrick lowered his mug. “We didn’t think we’d ever see you again,” he said, and more questions instantly spawned in Lena’s head. Her questions were like a mythical creature. If one was cut down, three more appeared in its place.

They clearly knew her. Shouldn’t she also know them?

“We… we fought for you,” Annie’s words were brittle and grainy like sugar, her smile keeping them unnaturally sweet. “But your father, he—”

At a look from Patrick, Annie fell silent and pursed her lips. She shook her head.

“You… you knew Lionel?” Lena asked. It was a redundant question. They had already answered it. And, by the looks of it, Patrick and Annie Kieran’s opinion of Lionel Luthor wasn’t exactly favorable. “He… he died,” she blurted, not sure why she was talking about her father of all people, and at a moment like this. She never talked about Lionel. With anyone. Except Lex. But Lex was dead too. She had shot him; shot him in the chest. Twice. “He died long ago.”

“We’re very sorry,” Patrick said, but his words were like cardboard. Unsubstantial, lifeless. “I’m sure he—”

“I’m not.”

Two pairs of eyes swung her way, and Lena ducked her head. What was wrong with her? Why did she have to—? Her grandparents would think she was a horrible person. And, perhaps that was the truth.

“They are all dead,” she went on, barreling towards whatever point her brain wanted to make at a sacrilegious pace. Yes, she was a horrible person. She had killed her own brother in cold blood. Whoever these people thought she was, she was a Luthor through-and-through, and the sooner they understood that, the better. “The Luthors. I’m… I’m all that is left.”

“Oh!” Something flickered in Annie’s eyes, but it was gone before Lena understood what it meant; gone and replaced by concern and sympathy for her. It made Lena’s skin crawl. “Oh, dear. How dreadful. You’re… all by yourself… now?”

Annie seemed to be asking about more than just dead Luthors, her tone implying curiosity about Lena’s personal circumstances, her living situation, her marital status.

Lena was a successful woman. She was smart and she was rich. At the snap of her fingers, she could have anything in the world that money could buy. She could surround herself with people, if she so chose. She could bed anyone she wanted. And yet, sitting in this warm and cozy kitchen, with these people who were connected to her in ways she didn’t fully understand, Lena felt a deep ache in her chest that took her by surprise.

“I’m— It’s just me now,” she admitted, feeling a pang of shame. She didn’t even have a dog. Or a houseplant. “I have a very demanding… I do work a lot.”

“Hard work is good for a person,” Patrick said. “It builds character.”

The hard work Lena was picturing involved tools, dirt, and heavy lifting. By that definition, she hadn’t worked a day in her life. She was good with numbers. That was about it. Remembering a lot of zeros and the many, many papers in her office, Lena thought of another piece of paper; a paper that was in her skirt pocket and burning a hole in the fabric the longer she thought about it.

“The company I run… it used to be my brother’s.” She swallowed. “But it’s mine now. And pretty much everything else too.” She looked between Patrick and Annie, hoping one of them would spare her the agony of having to go on and explain exactly what she was insinuating. Explain why she was here. She squirmed a little, feeling the seat cushion move beneath her.

Patrick gave her a small nod. “That means this house,” he said. “It is yours to do with as you please.”

Lena shook her head, alarmed. “It’s… but it’s your home! I’m not… I don’t want to—!”

“We’re never late on rent,” Annie said. “And we’ll keep it that way.”

When Lena opened her mouth to protest—she wouldn’t take their money. She had more than enough—her shame got tangled up with yet more questions and lodged in her throat, and Patrick beat her to it, speaking first.

“If you allow us to stay here, we will keep up our end of the agreement; like we have done for the past… twenty… twenty-two years. If not—”

Lena held up her hands in the surrender pose. Legally, she might own this house now, but that didn’t mean it was hers to _take_ , and she wouldn’t. What person evicted their own grandparents? No. She might be a horrible person, but she wasn’t _that_ cruel. And it stung a little that they thought she might be.

“Of course! I’d never—! I didn’t mean…”

Feeling tears prick her eyes, Lena looked up to find Patrick smiling at her warmly.

“That’s alright,” he said. “It was always meant to be yours. So you see, everything is just as it should be. Everything’s just fine.”

As reassuring as his words were, Lena couldn’t meet his gaze. She looked around the room instead— at the apron sink, the old cabinetry, the battered appliances that had to be older than she was. Lots of natural wood tones. An old painted cupboard with drawers; wood brackets holding a pantry’s worth of glasses, dishware, and mismatched mugs. Fresh herbs in flower pots, curtains.

“How come…” Before she could finish her question, there was a loud noise at the door, and Lena blinked confusedly when, a moment later, the taxi driver appeared in her grandparents’ kitchen.

“Evening. Annie, Pat,” he said, tapping his flat cap in greeting and shooting Lena a grin. “I just wanted to make sure—”

“Nonsense, boy,” Patrick said. “You wanted to stick your nose up our business.” He laughed. “Like mother, like son.” Still smiling, Patrick got up to get another cup and more tea. “Well then, John. Sit down, mind your manners, and introduce yourself properly.”

Her driver— _John_ —did as he was told and held out his hand to Lena. “John Murphy,” he said, his eyes scanning her face as if he was looking for something.

Bewildered, Lena took his hand, albeit briefly. She didn’t feel like it, but her Luthor upbringing didn’t leave her much of a choice. “Lena… Luthor,” she said slowly, letting the awkwardness wash over her. She had just spent hours in a car with this man, but now that he was no longer a nameless stranger, she felt herself blush under his scrutiny.

“I knew it!” John seemed delighted. “Mary’s girl. You sure grew up fast. Last time we saw you, you were just a wee thing.” He indicated roughly 40 inches off the ground. “Yea high. Quite a hot head on your shoulders.” He chuckled. “Wait till I tell Kathleen…” 

Lena had no answer to that. Did everyone in this one- _sheep_ town know who she was?

“Let the poor girl breathe, John,” Patrick warned, handing him the tea. “And don’t run that big mouth of yours all over town.” He turned to Lena. “John’s wife, Kathleen, was a school friend of… your mother’s.”

Lena nodded. Of all things, imagining her mother as a young girl who went to school and made friends there, was what threatened to finally have her head explode. Her mother had always been a distant memory, a faint warmth, a ghostlike presence in her life. She never really pictured her as a person. A person, solid and real and tangible. A person with a past, and _people_ , and—

“It’s uncanny,” John said, taking a noisy slurp of his tea. “Spitting image.”

Well, at least she had heard that one before. From Lillian Luthor, which wasn’t ideal, but prevented her from flinching now.

“So I’ve been told,” she said. She glanced at Annie, who was sitting back in her chair, cradling her mug in her hands, and watching carefully over the rim of it.

“Uncanny,” John said again, shaking his head slowly. “You sound a little like her too. The accent’s off.”

“Was there something else you needed, John dear?” Annie asked, and Lena’s eyes flitted back to her face. Her voice was sweet as honey on toast, but Lena was sure there was a hint of something hard underneath her question. A warning, a dismissal. Something had shifted in Annie Kieran, and years of navigating Luthor Manor and its inhabitants had Lena pick up on the change immediately.

John put his tea down and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Sorry. Just… meant to check in. Say hello. Bring those bags—”

Lena turned in her seat to fully face him, but no words came out of her mouth when she opened it. Wait, he had brought her luggage?! Here? Why?

“I thought… I’d just… find a hotel,” she stammered, while she avoided looking at anybody.

“Oh, don’t be silly now, dear,” Annie said. “You’re staying with us.”

Lena looked up. “I… I am?”

“Of course you are. I won’t have Barbara put up my granddaughter in that den of debauchery of hers.”

“Annie,” Patrick said, leaning over and reaching for his wife’s hand. Lena watched their linked hands—the braided fingers, the little squeezes passing between them like a secret language—and her heart ached for something she refused to put a name to. If she had, it would have had blue eyes and blonde hair, but she was in no condition to go anywhere near that place right now. “Lena is a grown woman. She can handle herself.”

Annie huffed.

“You’re welcome to stay here,” Patrick said, turning his head to look at her without letting go of Annie’s hand. He smiled, and Lena watched his face fill with warmth and welcome. “We would be very happy to have you, Lena.”

The look in his eyes melted her anxious, defended heart, and Lena nodded slowly. She let out a deep breath. The long flight and cab ride from the airport seemed to finally be catching up with her. She felt bone-tired.

“Alright,” John said, getting to his feet. His chair scraped across the floor as he pushed it back. “I better be going then. Have a good one, everyone. See you tomorrow.”

“Give our best to Kathleen, Aoife and Niamh,” Annie said, not taking her eyes off Lena as she took John’s cup off him and put it back on the table, for the time being.

“Let me walk you out,” Patrick said, following John out of the kitchen. Lena’s eyes stayed on his broad shoulders and back until he was swallowed up by the darkness beyond the room.

They sat in silence for a moment. Lena finished her tea, then stifled a yawn with little success.

“ _Ara musha_ , poor creature,” Annie said. “Be a dear and put these in the sink for me?” She nodded at the mugs on the table, most of them empty. Lena hastened to collect them and carefully placed them in the sink, hesitating for a second and wondering whether she should run some water into them or not. Great, she’d been too busy and too filthy rich for too long to even remember how dishes worked.

“Thank you. Come along now, dear. Let’s get you set up.”

Feeling a little sheepish, Lena followed Annie to a larger room that had to be the living room. It was even warmer and cozier than the kitchen had been, with the heat from a tiled stove engulfing her in a hug as soon as she stepped inside. The room was lined with uneven bookshelves. Soft rugs covered the floor. A worn couch, an armchair, and a rocker stood grouped together closest to the stove. Mismatched pillows and blankets made it look like the perfect place to sit and read, get lost in a good book for hours on end. Her eyes resting on the knitting sitting in the rocker, Lena wondered when she had last picked up a book just for the simple pleasure of a well-told story.

They didn’t stay in the living room. Annie instructed her to grab clean linen from a drawer in the corner, and led her up a flight of stairs and into a small bedroom, passing framed photographs that collaged the walls and told a story that seemed to whisper in Lena’s ear to come closer and take a good look. She didn’t. She held onto the bundle in her arms and walked on.

“You must be tired,” Annie said, crossing the room and closing the window. "The bathroom is next to your room. I’ll get you some clean towels. Let us know if you need anything, dear.”

Lena’s eyes slowly swept the room that was supposed to be hers for the night. “Thank you,” she said, only half listening as her eyes were busy taking it all in. The upper walls were papered in soft pink rosebuds. White curtains veiled a large window above a well-loved window seat. The window had to be overlooking the garden. It was too dark to see now, but Lena was sure she would be greeted by warm sunlight and a sea of brilliant green in the morning. In one corner sat a drawer, a chair, and a white wicker basket; and, in the middle of the room, the headboard pushed against a wall, an antique sleigh bed was made up with a cotton candy pink, biscuit quilted comforter, edged in white eyelet.

Not knowing why, Lena let out a soft gasp. The longer she studied the rosebuds and the comforter, the more a strange feeling kept tugging at her, but it proved as elusive as it was insistent, and Lena was too tired to try and hold onto it.

Before she could offer to help, Annie had taken the linen from her arms and started making the bed with practiced hands, folding and tucking corners like she could do it in her sleep.

“Here you go.” She turned to Lena, leaning forward on her walking stick. “I’ll ask Pat to bring up your things. Sleep well, _a leanbh_.”

“You too. Goodnight,” Lena said, feeling her arm tingle where Annie had stroked it in passing. She was so preoccupied with the jumble of thoughts in her head and the feelings swirling in her chest, that she didn’t even call after her and tell her that she would go and get her bags herself. They were heavy.

Annie left the door slightly ajar on her way out—like one would for a small child—so that some of the hall light fell across the bed and her sitting on it, and Lena bit her lip, rubbing at her eyes and feeling tears slowly trickle down her cheeks.


	3. Morning

As soon as her head hit the pillow, she was gone, lured to the land of sleep by the faint scent of lavender and the calming weight of the comforter. 

Lena slept like the dead. Quite frankly, she'd probably never slept better in her life, and when she woke with a jolt the next morning, her head spun from sitting up too fast. Why wasn't she in her bedroom? And why did her head ache like she’d been on a horrible bender last night? Slowly, the events of the day before trickled back into her consciousness, and she rubbed her face in quiet disbelief and wide-eyed wonder.

She was in Ireland, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, in her grandparents’ house. She had grandparents. Of course, everyone had grandparents, ancestors, genetically speaking, but Annie and Patrick Kieran weren’t just names on some piece of paper or on a tapestry on the wall, but actual, real, alive people. They were alive. She had family that was still alive. 

Lena stared up at the ceiling while lying on her back, taking shaky breaths through her nose to calm herself down. It just didn’t feel real. None of it.

If even a single Luthor—other than herself—were still alive today, she would never have learned about this house or the people in it, and the thought made hot anger glow and smolder in her chest. All these years, her grandmother and grandfather had been kept from her. She had been lied to; and Lena wondered why she was still surprised by that fact. Had the Luthors ever told her the truth? About anything? But why, why on earth, had they adopted her if they didn’t actually want her? Why couldn’t she have stayed here; stayed with her mother’s parents?

As she got out of bed, the comforter wrapped around her for warmth, and clambered onto the window seat to look out the window, she wondered who she would have grown up to be if things had been different. What would her life look like?

Outside, the new day was a painter painting a slow picture of the morning. He painted with some yellow in his palette, as well as bright orange, pink, and blue. He made interesting contrasts using dark blue strokes on the sky and soft yellow brushes on the horizon; and, of course, there was green too, lots and lots of green, only broken by fluffy white clouds. Lena had never seen quite as many sheep. Had she ever seen any? The Luthors had certainly never taken her to a farm or a petting zoo as a child. Pressing her hand to the glass, she wondered what their wool would feel like under her fingertips.

Why, oh why, had Lionel dragged her away from all that could have been; dragged her to that big, cold house to live with even colder people? Why did he have to have her, if he didn’t want anything to do with her? He had only ever really noticed her presence when he was three sheets to the wind and needed someone to yell at. What had been the point?

A wave of sadness washed over her, dousing her rage and filling her chest with smoke. It burned in her throat and stung her eyes, and Lena stood up quickly, shaking her head. The past was the past. Nothing to be done about it.

There was no clock anywhere, her phone had died overnight, and she had lost all sense of time and space, but it had to be very early in the morning, so Lena tried to be extra quiet as she left the room and tiptoed to the bathroom to splash some water on her face, brush her teeth, and wrangle her bedhead into something more presentable.

Back in the bedroom, she rifled through her luggage for something to wear that didn’t scream corporate business bitch, but the best she could do was a blue wrap blouse and a black pencil skirt with a matching belt. She didn’t want to put on her heels—much too noisy—so she was left to pad downstairs practically barefoot. Pantyhose really didn’t count.

The morning was chilly and she was already half frozen when she made it to the kitchen.

Part of her had wanted to bring the comforter for warmth, but she couldn’t drag it all over the house like a baby blanket or stuffed animal, could she? Thankfully, the kitchen was toasty warm when she entered, and she sighed contentedly.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning, dear. Did you sleep well?” Annie asked, turning to her with a smile. She was standing at the stove, a dishtowel pinned to her blouse, cooking some kind of breakfast that smelled absolutely divine. “Sit down, _bábóg_ , so you can eat. I hope you’re hungry. I have bacon, sausages, baked beans, and eggs almost ready for you and there’s hot water in the kettle for your tea.” 

Lena blinked. “I had a good night,” she said shyly, slowly walking over to the table and hovering by it. It had been set for three, placemats laid out where each of them had sat the previous evening. Lena noticed hers had little butterflies and flowers on it. “Should I—? Do you need any help?” she asked, leaning against the table while rubbing her foot against her leg.

Still smiling, Annie shook her head. She opened her mouth to say something, but then frowned, and Lena almost laughed. She knew that crinkle. She saw it in the mirror often enough. “Could you watch the eggs for me for a moment, pet?”

Lena nodded eagerly, relieved to have something to do, an instruction to follow. She kept her eyes on the eggs in the frying pan as she had been told, listening to the oil fizzle and the sound of Annie’s walking stick as her grandmother left the room and then came back only a couple minutes later. She watched the eggs very carefully, so they wouldn’t burn, but wasn’t sure what she would have done if they had started to, because the stove was absolutely ancient and gas, and she was all thumbs when it came to cooking to begin with.

“Thank you, dear,” Annie’s voice said behind her, and before she could turn around, Lena felt something soft being draped around her shoulders. Surprised, her hands flew up to touch it and found a soft cape, warm and beautifully woven.

“Lambswool,” Annie explained, catching her expression. “As are these.” She held out a pair of rolled-up socks, shaking them a little when Lena didn’t take them. “Now, you put them on before you catch your death o' cold,” she scolded gently, and Lena felt the tips of her ears grow warm.

“T-Thank you,” she mumbled, taking the socks and sitting down on the corner bench to pull them on. “I… I didn’t really pack for—”

“It’s no matter, dear,” Annie said, plating up what looked like half the frying pan’s contents and putting the plate in front of her. “Here you go, darling.”

“Thank you.” Lena bit her lip and looked down at what had to be a full breakfast for at least three people or one Kara. Kara surely would have— _No_. Lena shook her head, refocusing on the food in front of her. There was bacon, sausages, baked beans, eggs, mushrooms, grilled tomatoes, and some hash. Three slices of toast, butter, marmalade.

Lena had been raised not to question what was put in front of her and not to get up from the table until she had cleared her plate and asked permission to be excused, but the task at hand seemed an impossible one. No normal person, no human, could eat that much food, could they?

“This smells wonderful,” she said, not to sound ungrateful, but didn’t start eating. All that food seemed daunting, and she didn’t have the heart to tell her grandmother that she usually skipped breakfast altogether.

Her fingers trailing the petals on her placemat, she smiled at Annie when she put down two mugs of tea on the table— one for Lena and one for herself. Lena’s mug was smaller than the one she had used yesterday, but also much prettier. This one was white, with a red handle and rim, covered in a ladybug pattern. Lena turned the mug around to follow the neat line of ladybugs with her eyes. On the other side, the line became a circle of bugs around the letter ‘L’, and Lena’s throat instantly closed up with unexpected emotion. Was this… had this been—?

She looked up to find Annie smiling at her with a strange sadness in her eyes.

“You… you used to love that mug,” she said, and Lena wanted nothing more than to share the memory, to make herself remember the mug, and Annie, and this house, but she couldn’t. The harder she tried, the more she was sure she hadn’t even _existed_ before the age of five or six, perhaps even ten. She certainly hadn’t been a person before the age of ten or eleven.

Lena swallowed. “It’s… beautiful.”

Annie sat down, her own breakfast plate in front of her, and picked up her fork. Her portions of everything were reasonable, and much smaller than Lena’s.

They didn’t speak for a long moment. When Annie urged her to eat her breakfast and drink her tea before it got cold, her voice was soft, and she looked at Lena with so much tenderness, Lena stuffed a forkful of everything into her mouth just to try and make her happy.

“Good morning.” Patrick came shuffling in, wearing a worn dressing gown over striped pyjamas and a pair of slippers. His bedhead was even worse than Lena’s had been, and Lena bit her lip not to laugh. “Love of my life.” He kissed Annie on the cheek. “Lena-bug.” He grinned at her, then turned his attention back to Annie. “Are you quite sure the child has enough to eat, my love?” Laughing at both their faces, he grabbed a mug from one of the brackets and began to whistle a merry tune as he poured himself hot water for his tea.

“Patrick,” Annie complained, a little color appearing in her cheeks. “Now, honestly.”

Patrick turned around, a piece of toast in his mouth, his mug in one hand and the bottle of milk in the other. Grinning around his toast, he made a show of pouring the milk, then set his mug down on the table and took a big bite of toast, chewing and swallowing before he said, “Whatever is the matter, dearest?” in the silliest voice Lena had ever heard.

Annie sighed fondly and shook her head.

“Oh, right. Can’t let the girl know we occasionally chew our food less than the recommended 32 times per bite and have been known to spill tea all over the house—”

“Patrick…”

“Oh, and the farting. There’s that too.” He pulled a face and winked at her, and Lena couldn’t help but giggle at the old man’s antics.

“Patrick Kieran,” Annie said, hiding her own amusement behind a fake stern tone. “You stop that monkey business right now and sit down for breakfast like a normal person.”

“Whatever you say, my love,” Patrick said, helping himself to a plate of food and kissing the crown of Annie’s head on his way to his seat. He picked up his fork and winked at Lena across the table, with both eyes this time. When he opened them again, they caught on the ladybug mug for a second. He smiled.

Lena followed his gaze, then met it, and something in her brain clicked. Ladybugs, Lena-bug. He had called her Lena-bug. He had called her Lena-bug, and she didn’t know what to do with that.

Feeling herself blush, she looked down at her plate, pushing a few beans around with her fork.

Whoever Lena Kieran would have been, in that moment Lena knew with absolute certainty that she would have been loved, loved dearly and whole-heartedly, and she quickly had to think about something else not to burst into tears at the old kitchen table. She couldn’t cry. Not here, not now, not about this. How foolish, how over-sentimental, to mourn a person that never was, a life that never got lived. It wouldn’t do to dwell on the ‘what if’ of it all. ‘What if’ was for underachievers and people who didn’t hit the mark on the first try. And Lena Luthor never missed.

She cleared her throat and held onto her fork a little tighter. Patrick and Annie were talking about people and places she did not know, and Lena kept her head down and made another attempt at tackling her breakfast.

“We're going to the morning market today,” Annie said conversationally, turning to her. “The morning market is only on weekends. Would you like to come with us?”

“There is nothing quite like the smell of freshly baked bread from Nancy O’Connor to awaken the senses on a Saturday morning,” Patrick added, and Annie threw him a look, kind of sideways under her lashes, that Lena couldn’t quite place.

“I… I’d like to,” she said slowly. “I think.” Glancing out the window at the rain that had begun to fall again, she mentally went through her bags upstairs, only to come to the conclusion that she had absolutely nothing to wear for such an outing. She assumed the market would be outdoors, but perhaps, given the time of the year, it wouldn’t be? “Where is it?”

Patrick beamed at her. “Near the old railway station, just outside town.”

Lena worried her bottom lip. She definitely didn’t have the right clothes or the right shoes.

“We’ll get you your mammy’s raincoat,” Annie said. “It should fit you just fine.” She smiled at Lena, a faraway look in her eyes for a moment, before she seemed to snap back to the present. “But first, you finish your breakfast. Market’s going till noon.”

Lena put more beans into her mouth. Her mother’s coat. If Annie and Patrick had held onto a child’s favorite mug for twenty years, of course they would also have kept their daughter’s coat too. She felt a cold shiver run down her spine. Her heart beat a little faster. What else would she discover if she went looking for it? What answers would she find if she had the courage to ask the right questions?


End file.
